


Take Your Time (Coming Home)

by zestitude



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Eventual Smut, Gay Bucky Barnes, It's a whole big thing, M/M, Origin Story, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Scrappy Steve Rogers, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zestitude/pseuds/zestitude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the story of Bucky Barnes' life: chasing fights he didn't start, wandering the streets of Brooklyn, Steve Rogers by his side.</p><p>Bucky Barnes was not the son of kings or presidents. He was raised very near the intersection of 86th and 3rd, on the south side of Brooklyn, near the army base where his father would meet his untimely end. He was one of many boys and girls that were sent to the Sisters of Mercy convent in Clinton Hill to be brought up by the nuns that walked its long, echoey hallways with their robes billowing behind them. He had gone to school, played ball in the park, had a series of inexplicably disappointing kisses with a respectable roster of pretty girls, fallen in love while he tossed stones in the shadow of the Brooklyn bridge. His story was that of many men of his time: orphans of the first war, sent to die in the second.</p><p>What he didn't know - what he couldn't have known - was that his life was something remarkable indeed. His life would sculpt the course of history. It would raise heroes from ash and dust.</p><p>The story of Bucky Barnes' life was extraordinary for one very important reason: it was irrevocably, hopelessly, fatefully intertwined with the story of Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Your Time (Coming Home)

_October 1939_

As far as Tuesday afternoons went, breathlessly chasing a fight down a rancid alley was painfully, pitifully par for the course. 

This was the fourth alley Bucky Barnes had ducked into, the soles of his work boots skidding on the ground, sharp eyes scanning the piles of garbage and grimy bricks for a sign of the senseless spitfire he called his best friend. 

_Where the hell is he?_

Bucky ran back up to where afternoon crowds milled around the shop windows, running a hand through his loose, dark curls in frustration as he looked up the sidewalk desperately.

It had only been about ten minutes since the oldest Harris boy had come pounding up to the entrance to the shipyard as Bucky was leaving for the day, doubled over with his hands on his knees, and wheezed: “Rogers. Fighting."

One of these days, Bucky’s eyes were gonna roll right out of his head. There would be time for eye-rolls later, after he was done putting Steve Rogers over his shoulder and dragging him back to their shitty apartment, away from the very real danger of getting his skull bashed in. 

“Where?” Bucky had asked, already tucking his tweed hat into his pocket, preparing for the run. 

“Hicks,” the boy panted, “Hicks and Montague. Almost to the Penny Bridge.” 

“You kidding me?” he barked back, though he immediately felt guilty for snapping at the kid. The boy gave a shrug, a _what do you want me to do about it?_ , a great heave of the shoulders that absolved him of all responsibility, and turned to stumble away. 

Bucky let out an almighty sigh. It was at least a mile away, through throngs of weary people leaving work for the day, straight through Brooklyn Heights and past their apartment and the couch that was calling his name, nearly back down to the water. He was gonna kill Steve himself this time if whoever he had taken issue with didn't beat Bucky to it. 

He had turned up in Brooklyn Heights with a stitch in his side and a chest that felt like it was being squeezed by a vice, looking up and down the cross streets he had been given. Leave it to Steve to get in a fight on a Tuesday afternoon, a ten minute run from the person most likely to help him, alone. 

 _And god forbid_ , Bucky thought as he stomped his way down the block and into the mouth of the next alley,  _God for-fucking-bid he get in a fight somewhere visible. Somewhere where I don’t have to go on a goddamn scavenger hunt to save his ass._

Bucky spotted Steve’s sparring partner first, solely because he still had his feet on the ground. 

“You rotten punk,” Bucky growled, punctuating his frustration with huffed breaths as he marched down the alley, ignoring the man who stood with his hands defensively raised into fists, his face turned upwards. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve called back. He was sitting cross-legged on the lowest level of an iron fire escape, his chin in his hands, a devilish grin spread across his face like a contented cat. It wasn’t immediately apparent how this scenario came to be, but Bucky took in the toppled mound of wooden crates, the ladder that hung just out of reach, and annoyance flared in his chest. 

“This what we’re doing now?” he snarled up at Steve, his hands on his hips like a nagging mother, “What are you, a damn monkey? I ran my sorry ass all the way down here, all the way from the yard, so you don’t get yourself killed by this idiot.” 

“Hey!” the man snapped, turning his attention away from the vexing puzzle that was fighting a man who was sitting ten feet off the ground. Bucky rolled his eyes (right out of his face, he was sure of it), turning his attention derisively towards the man. He wasn’t taller than Bucky but he was much broader, his shoulders a formidable wall, “He started it!” 

“He’s ninety pounds soaking wet, you couldn’t have walked away?” Bucky snapped, ignoring Steve’s indignant scoff above him. 

“He told me to shut up!” the man replied, just baffled enough by the situation that he seemed to forget what he was doing, his fists drooping in front of him, "Called me a Filipino!” 

“Philistine!” Steve corrected and Bucky closed his eyes, praying for the strength not to hit Steve himself.

“Steve, can you _just_ —“ He didn’t get to finish his plea for Steve to _just be quiet for once and stop making everything worse_. He was interrupted by the familiar crack of a closed fist to his jaw, the one he’d become well-acquainted with over the past fourteen years. 

He reeled back, trying to keep his feet beneath him as stars burst behind his eyes and the taste of blood filled his mouth. That just wasn’t fair fighting, sucker-punching a guy when he’s busy pleading with a higher power.

Bucky had been in his fair share of fights over the course of his life, sometimes on Steve’s behalf - mostly on Steve’s behalf. He could throw a punch, did all right at dodging them too, but he sure did hate it. He would avoid a fight with sweet apologies or a quick escape and he wouldn’t worry for one second about his masculinity being challenged. His masculinity wasn’t the one sporting a black eye and loose teeth - his face was. 

In the time it took him to compose himself the man was putting his weight behind another hit, swinging wildly, and Bucky ducked it easily before landing his own punch right in the middle of the man's stomach. He faintly heard Steve’s triumphant yell and the thud of his feet on the ground as the man stumbled backwards, the wind knocked out of him. Then Steve was popping up from behind the man, his skinny arms circling his neck as he dragged him backwards down the alley. Bucky groaned. 

“Steve, c’mon,” he yelled, running forward to grab his best friend by the arm before their opponent could recover enough to hit him, too. Steve had taken his fair share of punches as well, but he didn’t take them quite as well as Bucky did. That was his Steve: very good at starting fights, not great at finishing them, absolutely terrible at walking away from them.

Even now, as the lumbering man was fighting to dislodge Steve, his face contorting with rage, Steve was trying to shake off Bucky’s efforts to drag him away. It had been a long day. Bucky was tired, his jaw ached, and he wanted to go home and drink a couple fingers of bourbon and give Steve a long, sprawling, ultimately pointless lecture on the benefits of not insulting someone twice your size, goddamnit. 

Bucky watched with his arms crossed in front of his chest as Steve and the man battled fruitlessly. Steve couldn’t get himself into a position to actually hit the guy without losing his grip. Despite his best efforts, the much larger man wasn’t able to shake him off. Bucky was, in reality, the slightest bit amused by this turn of events. Steve’s fights usually didn’t end this way: they usually ended with Steve bleeding, or having an asthma attack, or some part of Bucky’s body scraping against some kind of ground or wall. It was actually somewhat entertaining to stand there, not be punched, and watch their impotent impasse. 

It didn’t take long for his amusement to wear off. He watched, annoyance growing in the pit of his stomach, twisting his guts, and then he was done waiting. Without hesitation, he marched forward, kicked the man sharply in the knee, grabbed Steve around the waist, and hoisted him over his shoulder as easily as he would throw a bag of sawdust at the yard. 

Ignoring Steve’s protests and the angry shouts of the man in the alley, Bucky took off.

“I swear, Buck, if you don’t put me down I’m hitting you next!” Steve yelled, flailing wildly, but Bucky was wholly concentrated on getting the hell out of there. He had Steve flung over one shoulder, legs akimbo, and he was hauling ass even as Steve squirmed and beat his fists against his back. 

Long days of heavy lifting at the yard were nothing compared to the workout he got dragging Steve out of alleys, unable to put him down until they were at least a few blocks away. Putting Steve down too close to the site of a fight was a mistake he had made once and only once. 

“You gonna hit me?” he challenged, dropping Steve roughly and watching, hands on his hips, as Steve caught his balance and pushed his blond hair out of his face, “Do it. Get all your frustrations out. Better me than them, I won’t hit you back.” 

Steve deflated somewhat at this, his chest becoming less puffed out, eyes less harsh. Without a word he crossed his arms moodily across his chest and set off down the sidewalk at a brisk clip. Bucky watched him for a moment - the jut of his narrow hips when he walked, his rickety gait, the curve of his neck as he hung his head in defeat. Perpetually lopsided. 

Bucky did this sometimes: gave Steve a minute to storm off, stewing in his self-righteousness, allowed him to take the upper hand. For all of his pride, his pigheaded penchant for defending the honor of half of Brooklyn… well, Steve needed a win every now and then. If he couldn't deliver the knockout punch in a testosterone-laden street fight, Bucky would let him claim victory in their resulting squabbles. Sometimes. 

Steve was a full city block up the road before Bucky jogged after him. He caught up easily, shoved his hands in his pockets, and fell into step. 

This was the story of Bucky Barnes' life: chasing fights he didn't start, wandering the streets of Brooklyn, Steve Rogers by his side.

It wasn't a perfect life, or even a particularly remarkable life. Bucky Barnes was not the son of kings or presidents or any of history's great men. He was raised very near the intersection of 86th and 3rd, on the south side of Brooklyn, near the army base where his father would later meet his untimely end. He was one of many boys and girls that were sent to the Sisters of Mercy convent in Clinton Hill to be brought up by the nuns that walked its long, echoey hallways with their robes billowing behind them like capes. He had gone to school, played ball in the park, had a series of inexplicably disappointing kisses with a respectable roster of pretty girls, fallen in love while he tossed stones in the shadow of the Brooklyn bridge. His story was that of many men in the early 20th century: orphans of the first war, sent to die in the second. 

Bucky Barnes would be the first to tell you that he was not living an extraordinary life. He would point to the string of bad luck that had plagued his early life with a roll of his eyes and a shrug of his shoulders. _What can you do?_

What Bucky Barnes didn't know - what he _couldn't_ have known - was that his life was something remarkable indeed. His life would sculpt the course of history. It would topple regimes. It would raise heroes from ash and dust. 

The story of Bucky Barnes' life was extraordinary for one very important reason: it was irrevocably, hopelessly, fatefully intertwined with the story of Steve Rogers.

 

* * *

 

_March 15, 1925_

“Step on a crack,” the boy skipped along on one foot, clumsily avoiding a crack in the sidewalk. He caught himself on a precariously balanced stack of wooden fruit crates with a dangerous wobble, “Break your mother’s back.” 

Bucky Barnes walked over cracks indiscriminately, the soles of his leather boots making confident slaps on the pavement, unconcerned with the breaking of backs. He pushed his unruly brown curls back and settled his cap on his head, his forehead shining from the unseasonably warm evening. 

“Lucky we’re orphans then,” Bucky grumbled and gave an apologetic wave to the old woman minding the fruit on his friend’s behalf. George ignored him, bouncing away from the fruit stand.

 _Orphans_. That was a word he was still trying to wrap his brain around, so he used it as much as possible, trying to make it familiar. It had been six months since his Pa had died - suddenly and inelegantly, _an accident on the base_ \- and the world had no problem seeing him as an orphan. He was trying to catch up. 

George was already moving along up the road, playing a solitary game of hopscotch against the concrete, weaving in and out of the busy Friday evening crowd. On top of the stack sat a crate of oranges, the outline of Florida stamped on the side, and Bucky stopped to examine the treasure that sat within. He ran a hand over the bright peels and picked one up in his small hand, weighing it.  

“Sorry about him,” he said to the woman with his most charming smile. He knew exactly how much change he had in his pocket, coins earned from delivering newspapers and groceries and anything else someone would pay him to carry. It wasn’t enough for an orange. He also knew exactly how much a sweet smile, big blue eyes, and a sad story were worth. 

“You not superstitious, boy?” the woman asked, the deep lines in her face creasing around a weary smile. Lots of people around here looked like that - beaten down, wrinkled, worn like an old pair of shoes.

“Superstition is for babies,” he told her in a grumbled, affected voice as he placed the first orange back in the crate and picked up another, “That’s what my Pa said.” 

“Your Pa must be a very serious man,” she wheezed, watching carefully as Bucky reached for another orange and compared the two in his hands, trying to determine which had the most juice. 

“He died,” he said plainly. That was easier to wrap his brain around. His Pa was here, and then he died. Just like his Ma. Just like everyone. 

The woman tugged her shawl tighter around herself, averting her eyes at Bucky’s revelation. Bucky was used to this: the past six months had been a blur of awkward silences and clumsy condolences, first from the men at the army base, then from the nuns at the convent, the boys at school, the milkman he helped carry full bottles to doorsteps before school. 

Bucky looked up the street to where George was apologizing to a young woman with a baby in a pram. He had his newsboy cap clutched to his chest in a chivalrous gesture, his eyes darting down to the sidewalk, still keeping an eye out for hazards. The old woman reached into the crate of oranges and pulled out a massive, bright orange navel orange. The sight of it alone made Bucky’s mouth water. They were his very favorite luxury, the reason he did odd jobs around town even when he was exhausted from the restless sleep he got in the boy’s dormitory. 

“Here,” she said, pushing it into Bucky’s hands. His small hands barely fit around it, and he held it close to his chest in disbelief. He shook his head, looking at her with wide eyes. 

“You mean it?” he asked, milking the pitiful orphan thing for all it was worth. He wasn’t proud of it, not really, but he had been dealt enough bad hands to feel a little entitled to some random kindness, even if he had to prod it along a little. 

“Go on,” she insisted with a nod up the sidewalk. George was standing by the stoop of a fire escape covered brownstone, still clutching his hat to his chest with small hands, his bright shock of orange hair sticking up in all directions. Bucky shot the woman a shy smile and a quick thank you and jogged up the walk to where his friend stood, his face scrunched up in disbelief.

“Why are people always giving you stuff?” he huffed and Bucky shrugged, shoving the orange into the canvas bag he carried over his shoulder.

George was all right, as far as boys at the convent went. He was eight, just like Bucky, but he was small in the way kids who lived in orphanages for a long time tended to be. He talked just to hear his own voice and smiled so much that it made Bucky a little uncomfortable, like he was missing a joke. But he was nice to Bucky, sat next to him during meals and showed him how to make his bed up to the nuns' standards, taught him how to get extra apple sauce at dinner. Bucky wasn’t in much of a position to be turning away friends.

Bucky had a lot more friends before he was taken to live with the Sisters of Mercy; he was funny, a quick runner, the tallest and strongest boy in his grade. But kids aren’t great with tragedy, and Bucky learned that lesson quickly and callously. He had left school one afternoon as a normal kid, a popular kid even, in the possession of a father and a home and a family. He had turned up at his new school as a pariah, greeted with averted eyes and hushed whispers.

The first day at his new school, Bucky had sat alone on the school steps while the other children walked home for lunch, his white bread and peanut butter sticky and unwieldy in his dry mouth. He would have been happy not to talk about the orphanage at all, or about his father’s funeral with its regal salutes from uniformed men, or about moving to a new and unfamiliar neighborhood, or about any of the rotten things that had come his way over the previous week. But kids are really lousy with tragedy. 

It had taken him a few months to be pleasant enough to the other boys at the convent that they would want to be his friend. He was angry with the world in a consuming sort of way, the great, cosmic anger that comes with equally great injustice.

He was angry with God for taking his parents away, but he was just as angry with them for dying. He was angry at himself for not spending more time with his father, but not nearly as angry as he was with his father for not spending more time with him. He was angry with himself for crying himself to sleep at night, his face buried in the worn-out teddy bear he kept stashed under his pillow so the other boys wouldn’t see. He was angry with every single person who smiled at him or offered him their bread roll at supper (he’d lost so much weight) or invited him to play ball in the park.

Six months later, he was still angry. There wasn’t a day that went by when Bucky didn’t curse his rotten luck, leaving him to talk himself out of wallowing in self-pity. He had been so lonely those first few months; even as his guts boiled with anger, he couldn’t go back to that. 

So he looked down at the small boy standing next to him on the sidewalk, his friend (I guess), and patted his bag.

“Guess I’m cuter than you. Anyway, if you’re real nice maybe I’ll split it with you,” he clapped a hand to his small shoulder and made his way down the street, past people shopping for supper, past a group of suited men unloading crates from the back of a truck. He dug an elbow in George’s ribs and nodded his head in their direction.

“Bootleggers,” he whispered and George gaped, mouth open and eyes wide, as he watched the men scurry inside a cobbler's shop. He grabbed his arm, tugging him along before the men noticed, “Quit lookin’. They’ll see you.”

He dragged the smaller boy around the corner and into the alleyway between two apartment buildings, ducking out of the busy sidewalk. The smell of garbage was thick and pungent in the alley and both boys quickly screwed up their faces in disgust, looking around for the source of the odor. The city was like this in the summer, when rotten meat and vegetables sat in the midday sun, congealing and infecting the air with the smell of their decay. The smell would linger for hours in your nose, no matter how far away you got. 

Bucky was just starting to head back out of the alley, away from the smell of decomposing litter and back towards the fresher air of the open street, when he heard a commotion behind him. Both boys turned back at the sickening thud of a punch landing, a body hitting the ground. It was a familiar sound at the orphanage. A bunch of abandoned boys will find reasons to fight.

“C’mon, Bucky,” George said quietly as he tugged on Bucky’s rolled up shirt sleeve.  

But that sound… it wasn't just a body. It was a _small_ body hitting the ground, Bucky knew that instinctively. Two teenage boys, fifteen at least, were standing at the end of the alley, looming over someone that Bucky couldn’t make out from his spot near the sidewalk.  They were holding something in front of them, laughing in mean-spirited howls.  

The only visible part of their victim was a pair of feet - two tiny, threadbare brown shoes poking out from behind a pile of discarded crates - and suddenly Bucky was heading towards the ruckus. He didn’t make a habit of getting pulled into fights that weren’t his, especially not against boys twice his age and nearly twice his size. But something pulled him down that alleyway, some irresistible intuition, and he ignored George calling his name from the sidewalk, looking around frantically for someone to help. 

“Hey,” he barked as he approached the older boys, finally able to see what they were laughing at. They had a notebook in their hands: an old, tattered leather notebook. It was the sort that Father Michael carried around, scribbling notes for his homilies. Scraps of paper floated down like snow and littered the ground around their feet as they tore the pages out, one by one.

Their attention shifted at the sound of Bucky’s voice. It was the tinny, flimsy voice of an adolescent boy, the sort of voice that was teetering right on the edge of its great baritone plunge. Yet Bucky had a way of projecting, making himself sound impossibly large, using his voice as the first line of defense when he was particularly worked up. 

Being raised by his father had some advantages: he wasn’t soft, for one. He could throw a punch before he could do multiplication, his father showing him how to ball his hand into a fist ( _Never like that, Buck, you’ll break your thumb_ ), how to follow through ( _It’s gotta come from your shoulder. You punch like that and you can knock down someone twice your size, just stand on a crate to reach his head_ ) and what to do when he was hopelessly outmatched ( _Aim for the family jewels and run. Ain’t a man alive who’s gonna be able to hit you after you kicked him in the crotch_ ).

There wasn’t a whole lot Bucky was sure of, but he was sure he could hold his own in a fight. 

“What do you want, kid?” one of the older boys said through his laughter, still looking at the book. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw their victim scrambling to his feet. Bucky had thought for sure that it would be a little kid, four or five years old, but up close he looked nearer to Bucky’s age. He was tiny, with spindly limbs and a sunken chest, but he stood like he was six feet tall, with his chest puffed out and his lips pulled tight to reveal a missing front tooth. He had straight, shiny golden-blond hair that hung down over his blue eyes.

He glared at Bucky, his eyes full of fire and his tiny fists balled up in front of his chest, and Bucky was suddenly struck with the impression that he may have started the fight in the first place.

“What do _I_ want?” Bucky asked incredulously, his hands firmly on his hips, “You kiddin’ me? Why don’t you two pick on someone your own size?” 

“Hey!” the boy snapped indignantly, “You’re not so big yourself!” 

Bucky spun around, looking at the boy with wide eyes, and he almost laughed. Honest to god, he almost laughed. He would have, if he wasn’t about to get his face smeared on a brick wall. His distraction was a mistake, allowing one of the larger boys the opportunity to land a forceful palm right at the center of his back, and he tumbled forward, scraping his knees on the rough ground. 

“I’m trying to help you!” he yelled as he scrambled to his feet and the blond boy shrugged dismissively, tightening up his fighting stance. 

“Help me, then. I already know I'm small, don't need you goin' on about it,” he focused his ire back on the two older boys, who had shifted their attention back to the notebook they were tearing to shreds, “Give me my book back!” 

“Or what?” one of the boys asked, not even bothering to look up.

It would have been in their best interest to look up. Bucky watched silently as the boy picked up a broken slat from one of the discarded crates, clutching the wooden plank in his small hands. He threw Bucky a dazzling smile, dripping with mischief and easy to read: _watch this._

Bucky watched, impressed and a little terrified, as the boy took two quick, long strides across the alley and swung like he was going for a home run, bringing the plank to the larger boy’s knees with an almighty crack. The boy let out a howl of pain as his knees buckled beneath him and his friend stood dumbstruck, staring down at the small boy as if he couldn't possibly be real.

Bucky took advantage of his distraction and ran at the bully that was still standing, throwing an efficient punch to his jaw and knocking him backwards into the bricks. He followed it up with a sharp kick to the groin, snatched the book and as many of the shreds of paper as he could, and pulled the small boy away by his bony upper arm.

The boy struggled the entire way, trying to pull out of Bucky’s grasp, but Bucky didn’t dare let go until they had emerged from the alley and travelled another two blocks up the road, far from the two very angry boys in the alley. George was long gone, probably running frantically back to the safety of the convent’s painted brick walls. 

The blond boy shoved him away as soon as Bucky’s grip loosened on his arm, stumbling backwards. He doubled over, clutching his chest, his breaths shallow and quick.  

“You okay?” Bucky asked, panting from the exertion. The boy shot him a fierce, challenging look. 

“I had ‘em on the ropes,” he growled through wheezing breaths, “You didn’t have to.” 

Far away from the danger, with adrenaline pumping through his veins, Bucky laughed straight from his belly. 

“Seein’ you swing like that, I kinda believe it,” he said, “You’re a regular Babe Ruth.” 

The boy looked up, the ghost of a grin breaking through his defiant glare. 

“Babe Ruth plays for the Yankees,” he wheezed. Bucky stared at the boy blankly, waiting for him to continue his thought. He caught his breath and spoke again, "More of a Dodgers fan.” 

 _Good Brooklyn boy_ , Bucky thought. 

“Me too,” he confirmed with a tentative smile, “You been to a game before?” 

“No,” the boy said quietly, finally straightening up and loosening his grip on his chest, “I just listen on the radio.” 

“Your Pa never took you?” Bucky asked and the boy shook his head.

“He died in the war,” he said and held out a small hand, scraped palm up, “Can I have my book?”

Bucky was quick to apologize, handing the book over without question. He reached in his pockets and pulled out the scraps he had hastily gathered from the ground, “My Pa died too. Just this year.” 

The boy shot him a sympathetic smile as he collected the pieces of paper, shoving them in his pockets. Bucky watched as he moved, his movements sure, purposeful. He was a curious sort of thing, and Bucky couldn't help trying to figure him out. He was angular and sharp and unbelievably fragile-looking, right up until he opened his mouth. It became quickly apparent that as breakable as he looked, you would cut your feet if you stepped on him. They stood in silence for a few moments, looking awkwardly around the rough surface of the sidewalk, before the boy seemed to suddenly remember his manners. 

“I’m Steve, by the way,” he shuffled his notebook to extend a hand, “Rogers. Steve Rogers.” 

Bucky took his hand, gave it a firm shake like his Pa had taught him. 

“Bucky,” he said and Steve’s face lit up with a smile. 

“That’s your real name?” he asked, tilting his head down and looking at Bucky from under his eyelashes. Bucky flushed. He stood up straight, his chin in the air, putting on an air of sophistication. 

“James Buchanan Barnes, sir,” he said in his best booming voice and Steve laughed, high and clear like the ringing of a bell. It felt like it hit Bucky right in the stomach, settling in the middle of him like warm soup on a cold day. 

“Bucky suits you better,” he said, leveling Bucky with a searching look that made him feel self-conscious. Bucky shrugged. He had always been Bucky, since before he could remember. It wasn’t a choice he had made. 

“I should head home, my Ma’ll be worried,” Steve said, nodding his head up the road, “You going this way?” 

“No, I’m…” he trailed off. It was still hard to admit. He pointed the other way, in the direction of the convent. “I’m up off Willoughby. With the Sisters of Mercy.” 

Steve fixed him with another of those looks, one that made him feel like he was getting X-rayed. Despite the many orphans that followed the flu epidemic and the first great war, Bucky was used to people being at a loss for words when he told them he lived at the convent. He was fully prepared to shuffle back alone, tend to his own scraped knees, and never see this boy again. 

“C’mon back with me,” Steve said suddenly, “My house is a lot closer. And my Ma’s a nurse, she can fix your knees up.” 

“Aw, that’s okay,” Bucky insisted immediately despite himself. His knees ached and idea of having a mother - anyone’s mother - doting on him sounded like absolute heaven, like something he wouldn't even dare to dream of. All the same, he didn’t want to impose. It was nearly supper time, and his father had always taught him not to show up at anyone’s house around supper time, so they didn’t feel obliged to feed you.

Steve continued to stare at him, his gaze sharp and perceptive beyond his years, and Bucky shuffled his feet awkwardly under his examination. 

“What’re you looking at?” he asked and Steve shrugged, unperturbed. 

“Just think it’s kinda rude that you won’t accept my hospitality,” he said, his chin tilted, his lips twisting as he held back the grin that fought against his indignant air.

“Rude, huh?” Bucky replied and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Tryin’ to do a nice thing,” Steve said. He kicked a pebble away with the toe of his worn-out boots. Casual, like it didn't matter to him either way. Bucky knew what Steve was doing; he could tell that Bucky didn’t want to take advantage and he was trying to make it easier on him. It was working. He met Steve’s eyes, feeling suddenly bashful, and pressed his lips into a thin line to hide his own smile. 

“Should probably walk you home, actually. You’ll probably pick a fight with Jack Dempsey or something,” he walked past Steve in the direction he had pointed and Steve let out a yelp of surprised laughter before jogging to catch up.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to go ahead and get chapter 1 out there while I'm (slowly) working my way through the rest of it!
> 
> I'll leave the rating at "Mature" until we get to the ~~good~~ dirty stuff.
> 
> \---
> 
> Waiting until the whole thing is done (or mostly done) to post the entire thing but I may post some chapters here and there. 
> 
> Title comes from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufO1G9x7Qxk).


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